


Break Myself To Save Them

by goldenzingy46



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Tragedy, Broken Harry Potter, Bunny Farm Escapee, Corrupted Harry Potter, Dark, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Dimension Travel, Drama, Harry breaks himself to fix everything else, Master of Death Harry Potter, Plot Bunny, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Tragedy, Twisted Harry Potter, irregular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46
Summary: Everything went wrong in the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore came far too late, and Fiendfyre devoured everything, Voldemort, Dumbledore, myself and my friends. I was offered a chance to go back until I got everyone out alive... but I lose something. A memory of longing, of friendship, of my parents, my friends, my family--I don't know if I can save them and myself. At least they'll be alright...The first chapter and the idea was from one of my good friends, Rachel... the rest is me ;)(Full permission from her!)
Kudos: 11





	Break Myself To Save Them

Every time I go back, I lose a bit of myself. An idea there, a thought here; always something. Sometimes I can't tell if I was always this way or if I was lying to myself before – did I really believe that? Is this not what I decided? Was all this not the reality beyond a shroud of l ies ?

Every once in a while, I believe it.

I look into the faces of my friends and think, 'Why? Why did I return? What was the point?' It never ends, it never slows, just again, and again, and again. I finally win some rest, only to be shot down, ripped apart, crushed into the marble floor. One down, then another, then the world explodes with pain and the same group is there in front of my kneeling body. If I stay silent (let them have what they want) they torture me slowly, ripping me apart from the inside (or maybe the outside) until someone goes too far and lets out the last gallon of blood. Fighting works, if only for a small amount of time, but my magic, already exhausted from the previous part of the fight that happened so long ago, weakens and falters under the pressure. No time to plan, no time to think, just pain, pain, pain.

When the pain no longer came, nerves destroyed for good, I stopped screaming and started to fight. Every little action, every little move – did pushing her wand away give me a few more seconds of action? Would tackling them cause them to be stunned for a bit longer? Could I see what would happen after every situation, just to delay the inevitable that much more? Eventually it became almost like an art form; I pranced into one man's long cane of a wand, grabbed it and spun around to sever the neck of the witch behind me. The delay of using another's wand would allow her time to extend her arm away from it, letting me stretch the curse past her into another man's outstretched wand hand to cut into the vein. He would fall back, bleeding out at a rapid pace and block the more masked strangers from holding up their wands. I would force my legs into a roll, avoiding a stray killing curse before being tripped up by some sort of problem (a cut off finger rolling across the floor, blood splattered along the side of the hall, stray cloaks and pieces of fabric singed by near misses, a cracked tile). It was then that _He_ would then come and wipe out around half of our forces and maybe a third of _His_ own. 

Then, it was game over.

Where was Dumbledore?


End file.
